


Fingertips (I Remember)

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 09:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10357002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: "I remember us / we were a late summer bliss / one of those moments that just slips / but you feel it from your heart to your fingertips."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChecktheHolonet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChecktheHolonet/gifts).



She has no idea if he survived the fight or not. In the end, it descended into chaos. The world of order they’d all been promised had dissolved like medicine thrown into acid, bubbling, boiling, spilling… bending the laws of physics almost to breaking point.

Everything they’d known, everything they’d worked for…

She remembers the smell of burning metal, and the knowledge that if she didn’t run, and _quickly_ , that the toxins would eat her up inside her chromium shell. She remembers the arcing light of ion and blaster fire, and the sound of a ship dying like some organic beast, deep in the cold of space.

She remembers running, and not knowing where he was. 

That was always going to be the problem. For all she’d risen in the ranks far outstripping anyone’s hopes for her, she was just a glorified trooper. And she’d been _fine_ with that, until him. She’d been _proud_ of herself, until him.

Then - his mask put to one side, beside hers - the black had made the metal shine dull. She was nothing, even if he said he loved her. She was no one, not compared to him. The blaster rifle in her hands was small compared to his saber, and her part was never going to be as big as his.

But oh, for the time they’d had together… she’d been convinced it was a lie, a joke, or something that would snap back on her face like a safety harness in a crash. This tall, powerful man who said he loved her, but who was called to the higher fight that she would never be more than fodder for.

He might have survived. She hopes he has. She has no idea which side he came down on, in the end. His nightmares would plague him from their bed in the small hours, and she’d watch him wash his face in the cool water before coming back to her arms. She wonders if he resented her, for the pull on his soul. He didn’t love the Order, but he claimed to love her, and she would never leave.

All those secret hours stolen from the dullness of the day. All the brushes against one another in the corridors, or the pushing into closets to pull their clothes apart and put their bodies in their stead. The creak of armour against the wall as he rocked her to bliss, the way his traces would last inside her as she patched her shell back together…

The nights, violent and vibrant. Fingers pushing bruises into skin. Lips marking territory no one else would ever see. Kisses. Cuddles. Hugs. Violence to kindness, and she feels the ache in her stomach as much as her heart.

She hopes he survived.

The sky rains down what debris came close enough to burn through the atmosphere, and there won’t be any survivors left to flee, now. It’s all the rain of death and metal, and as she sits in front of her discarded armour, she wonders if she’d be shot for it.

Phasma has no idea. She doesn’t even know who _won_ , and that’s the most surreal thing of all. It’s fallen one side or another, and she can’t work out which would be best.

She hopes he’s out there. She hopes he’ll find her. She hopes he’ll still _want_ to, and that hurts more than the cuts to her skin, or the tears in her muscle, or the stress-lines on her bones. 

She watches the sky, and waits to see who won.


End file.
